Writing Without a Script
by LoverFaery
Summary: Oneshot. Rated for my dirty mouth more than anything else. A year postRENT, and Mark and Roger are once again alone in the loft. Revamped but still crappy summary. More inside.


**Alternate Summary**: Last time, he barely moved for months. This time, he barely stopped moving for months. It was bound to catch up with him….

**Author's Note**: I tweaked the timeline a little, as far as April was concerned. If you've seen it on stage, this might bother you. For those of you who saw only the movie, you might not even notice, but I thought I'd warn you.

And Mark is working at Buzzline. Even though he says the line "I quit" in "What You Own." He reconsidered and decided they needed the money more than he needed a conscience, but it eats him up.

Also, I would like to state for the record that I like Mimi. Really I do. Her absence in this fic is due to my like and respect for her. I did her an honor by killing her off. Honest.

There's mild slash in this, so if you're opposed to that… CLOSE THE WINDOW NOW. However, it's all fluff, so if you think you can stomach it… read on.

Dedicated to Natalia, my favorite roomie, for better or for worse.

_December 24, 1991_

_10 P.M. EST._

_Loft_

Mark came in the door and he knew there was something wrong. He saw the Fender leaning up against a wall on the far side of the loft. He saw Roger lying still on the couch.

After April died, Roger hadn't moved for months. He just lay there, on that couch, silent, curled up under a blanket- two if Mark tucked an extra one in. His hopeless lethargy, the boundless grief, took control of him. He didn't cry. He didn't play his guitar. He didn't talk to Mark. He didn't bathe. He didn't cut his hair. He didn't leave the apartment. He didn't take his AZT. If he ate other than when Mark forced him to, it wasn't much, and Mark never saw. Mark didn't know if he slept. Mark did know that he didn't shoot up. He was watching for that.

For the first few months, Mark was afraid to leave Roger alone in the house, afraid he'd come back to find a corpse. Not that Roger would kill himself- although he worried about that, too- but that he would simply stop living. But then Roger improved, a little, and though the worries were still there, they were less pressing and could wait until AZT was picked up and groceries were bought.

The best Mark could figure, Roger had never thought about death before he was diagnosed. After that, it kept him awake some nights, but even then he had April to worry over, April to help, April to take care of. But after April was no longer there for him to think about, all he had was himself. The only thoughts in his head were "April is dead" and "I am next." So he shut down. He gave up. It bothered Mark, that his friend was acting like death had already come for him. Mark hated April for leaving like that. It wasn't fair, that Roger was the one still alive and he was dead inside anyway.

And then there was Mimi, and Roger left the loft. He found life worth living. He was a person again, and Mark saw traces of the Roger he used to know, the Roger who smiled and laughed and wrote songs and kissed pretty girls.

Then Mimi died, and Mark was terrified that Roger would sink back into his despondency, would put the Fender away and curl back into himself, abandon himself to the idea of death. That he would decide that life wasn't worth it after all.

But he didn't give up. He went to meetings and went to Maureen's shows and picked up his own pills. Better yet, he remembered to take them. He wrote two whole songs, and they were good. He'd barely stopped moving in three months, even when he slept. At night, he kicked and whimpered; ever since the funeral, he'd been having nightmares almost every night.

In a way, Mark was proud of Roger; he was handling things exceptionally well. Roger was strong, much stronger than Mark could ever imagine having to be. But the restlessness that had possessed Roger worried Mark, too. It was as if Roger was trying to keep himself occupied so he didn't have to think about what had happened- so he didn't have to think about death- April's, Mimi's, or his own. And, sooner or later, he was going to have to think about it.

And now, Mark came home to find him plopped motionless on the duct taped couch, curled up under a blanket, not plucking at his guitar, not fumbling with matches, not on his way out, in the frigid cold and complete darkness of the loft.

Mark flicked at the light switch. Nothing happened.

"Fuck." He said, slamming the door behind him. "No power."

He received no reply other than a slight groan.

"Roger?" He asked, stepping closer. "Why haven't you lit candles? Or a fire? You must be freezing."

His answer was a violent shiver as it coursed through the blanketed body and tousled head.

"Roger?" Mark repeated, laying a hand on the blanket where it probably covered ankle. "What's wrong? Answer me."

"Marky?" Bleary green eyes blinked open. "I didn't hear you come in." Roger sniffled.

"I called to you." Mark responded. "You didn't answer. I was worried."

Roger stretched. "Sorry." He replied sleepily. He snuggled deep into the blanket and coughed a few times.

Mark's concerned hand traced its way across Roger's face. The skin was hot as fire beneath his icy fingers. The other man twisted away from his hands.

"'S cold." He complained.

"You're sick." Mark declared, stunned.

Roger sneezed in confirmation.

Mark had always fussed over Roger- slipped him extra blankets, food, reminded him to take his pills, that sort of thing. Roger liked to tease and call him "Mom," tell him he worried too much. But Mark couldn't help it. It was his deepest fear- aside from Maureen being his last lover and leaving him to die alone, which he dreamed of often- that Roger would get sick and die and leave him alone. Several nightmares of his ended that way- alone in the loft, Roger having died and Maureen forsaken him. Maureen had forsaken him, of course, left him for Joanne- there was no helping that. But Roger wasn't going to die for a while yet, not if Mark could help it.

He liked to think that it was the reason Roger stayed relatively healthy despite the virus- he had Mark there to make him sandwiches with stale bread, whether he was hungry or not.

Mark had a moment of paralyzing shock every time Roger came down with the slightest cold. While his defenses were down, he could get hit with some other infection- or, worse, it could turn into pneumonia. That was what had finally taken Mimi earlier that year. Or maybe it would be cancer, like what took Angel. After the initial jolt of fear, Mark felt he was a very apt nurse- sometimes he even thought too attentive, but he knew he had to pick things to worry over, and that could not be one of them.

Roger squirmed and shivered in the chilly winter air, not much warmer than that of the snow-covered street below. Mark set about fueling a fire in the old illegal stove. He winced as he lit the beloved sheet music on fire- Roger would hate that, but it had to be done. He'd sacrificed his last screenplay ages ago for a fire, and Roger knew Musetta's Waltz by heart anyway. They needed to get some heat in the room, or Roger would suffer more for that than for lack of music to play.

As he waited for the sparks to produce any real heat, Mark wiped at his nose impatiently. It had been running more or less constantly since mid-November. He felt a pang of guilt as he wondered if some cold bug he had brought home and fought off had targeted Roger's weaker frame. He knew there was nothing he could do about his friend's ever-growing susceptibility, but he was guilt-ridden over his superior immunities all the same.

Roger had dozed off by the time Mark was finished prodding the makeshift tinder. Mark watched for a moment, smiling tenderly, as the fire's flickering light cast a soft glow on fever-flushed cheeks and soft but matted hair.

Then the eyes flew open again, swirling green depths misty and unfocused. They concentrated on a spot that was not quite Mark and not quite beyond Mark. Then he spoke. And the word tore Mark's heart in two, for this is what he said:

"Mimi?"

"No, Rog. It's Mark. Mimi's…" His voice broke. He couldn't tell him. He couldn't watch the pain flood Roger's face again, couldn't bear to comfort him for the same death twice. "Mimi's not here, Roger. I'm Mark."

"Marky?" Roger's eyes tried valiantly to focus on the blonde. "Mark, she's dying." His words adopted a tone of urgency and he reached out and put a hand on Mark's shoulder. "I can't bear this. I can't just sit and watch her die but that's all there is to do. She's dying and all I can do it sit and wait for death to take her. It's not fair. I'm older, I had it first, I should be the one dying now but she's going and I'm not. It's not fair. She still hasn't seen Central Park or danced on the Brooklyn Bridge at midnight." A single tear forged its way across the face and fell into his hair. "I wish she could live."

Mark remembered this conversation, remembered the first time they'd had it, slightly more coherently, back in September. In the hospital waiting room, after the doctors had told them of Mimi's impending death. He had held Roger while they both cried a little, and then they'd gone in to put on a brave face for Mimi, who knew anyway.

"Shh, Rog. Everything will be okay. She'll be happier. She hasn't been well for ages, Rog. You know that." Mark parroted his own words mechanically, almost without feeling, the same way he used to tell Roger not to stay in the loft all day. That emotionless voice he used to hide the gaping emotional wounds.

"But she… She's so _alive_, Mark." Roger answered. "It's wrong for someone as _alive_ as Mimi to be dying."

Mark had to admit that this was more or less so.

"Marky..." The voice grew faint, the eyelids fluttered. "Marky…" And Roger was back in fitful sleep. Mark yawned.

After a little cough, Roger turned his back to Mark. Mark, feeling the customary jolt of fear, knelt next to the couch and put a hand on the other man's chest.

Mark listened carefully to the sound of the breath, straining to hear the telltale rattle of pneumonia, which there was none. He laid his head down on the warm couch next to his slumbering comrade, and followed the soft rise and fall of the familiar chest…

_11:34 P.M. EST_

"Marky?"

Mark opened his eyes and lifted his head. Straightening his glasses, which had come askew in the night, he sat up. Roger came into focus. He looked better, which was comforting, and was sitting up.

Roger sniffled. "Mark, what're you doing?" He looked down at his friend curiously. Mark noted that the green eyes were clear and the face only a little pinker than usual.

"I… I guess I fell asleep." He admitted sheepishly, stretching out his sore neck. His eyes darted around the room. "The fire's gone out." He remarked.

"Yeah, but the power's come back." Roger coughed and shifted, pulling himself into a more comfortable sitting position. "Why didn't you go to bed? You could've frozen to death there."

As Mark worked out incompliant joints, he realized that he was, in fact, frozen stiff. He also registered that one of Roger's blankets had been transferred to him. "The fire was in here." He explained, shivering. "And I couldn't leave you in here alone. You could've died or something." He paused. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, I guess." Roger answered. "A little weak, and it's cold as death in here." He coughed again, his breath clouding up in front of him, so thick it was opaque, like he was smoking.

Mark checked his watch. It was past time for Roger's pills. Way past time. He stood, clutching the blanket around his shoulders for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. Then he swished it around, like he was removing a cloak, and threw it on Roger's reclining form. He headed for the kitchen.

"Where are you going?" Roger called after him.

"Getting your AZT." He replied, tugging his scarf tightly around his neck for heat. He scrambled around, looking for something he could burn, grabbing the pill bottle and a glass of water. Shaking the bottle, he heard the disconcerting sound of only a few pills rattling around. Roger always forgot to tell him when he was running out. This bottle would only last a few days. They'd have to go for more soon.

"You're running low." He announced, handing off the pills and the water.

Roger accepted the pills and took them silently, sipping at the water. Mark worked on rekindling the fire, burning his finger in the process.

"Shit." He hissed, dropping the burning match into the wood burning stove and waving his hand around in the stinging air.

When he turned around, Roger was studying him and chewing on his thumbnail. It was a nervous habit he'd picked up in rehab, something to do with his hands, so that he was chewing not so much on the nail as on the thumb itself. For the longest time after he quit using, the skin on his right thumb was puffy and inflamed. He'd given it up shortly before last Christmas, when he'd begun trying to make music again and a raw thumb was a hindrance.

"You should be laying down." Mark observed, as Roger stepped closer to him. He sniffed as he ignored the urge to wipe his nose again.

Roger removed his thumb from his mouth and deliberately laid a hand on Mark's elbow. "You're cold." He said, quietly. Their eyes locked into a single gaze, gray-blue eyes meeting gray-green ones.

Mark suppressed a shudder that was only part below-freezing temperature and crappy heating system. "You're hot." He replied, reaching numb fingers up to the fevered forehead in a touch that felt good to both.

Roger ignored him. "I have all the blankets." He continued. "I counted. You'll freeze to death that way, always taking care of me and not of yourself." The staring match was broken as he turned his head away to cough into his left fist.

"And you'll make yourself sicker if you keep this up." Mark sighed. "Come on, sit down. You don't look well."

"Your lips are almost as blue as your eyes." Roger protested weakly, allowing himself to be pushed backwards onto the couch.

"My eyes are gray." Mark asserted.

"They're gray-blue, and you know what I mean." Roger compromised, although he knew that they were a deep, stunning blue that Mark only pretended was gray. He sighed, settling back into his warm spot with the blankets over him. "Either way, it's not a good color for lips to be. Your teeth are chattering."

Mark didn't try to deny the obvious truth. He shivered and rubbed his hands over his forearms to generate friction.

"Take a blanket."

"No." Mark congratulated himself on a steadfast refusal, despite the harsh cold of the apartment.

"Come on, take a blanket. It won't kill you."

"It's not me I'm worried about." Mark bit his lip and flushed ashamedly at the outburst.

Roger didn't yell, though. He sighed. "It won't kill either of us." He amended, rubbing his head. "But fine. If you won't take one from me, for me, then you'll just have to get in with me." He held a corner of the blankets out, inviting Mark to climb up.

"What?"

"You don't honestly think I'd let you sit there turning to ice, do you?" Roger asked. "You have to know me better than that. Jump in. It's warm." He nestled deeper under the blankets to illustrate the appeal of the couch.

Mark eyed the couch critically. "Roger, it's a couch." He stated precisely. "There isn't room for two people."

"There's room for you." Roger objected. "You're small. There's plenty of room." This time, he managed to wiggle in a way that maximized the amount of space available for Mark. He didn't mention the other factor that made room for Mark; namely, the amount of weight he'd lost recently. Either he hoped Mark hadn't noticed- unlikely, given the fact that Roger hadn't ever had fifteen pounds to spare- or he thought it went without saying.

Mark saw that there was no way to get Roger to drop this, so he did as he was told. "Okay." He answered. "If it'll get you to rest, I'll get in."

It was heaven. The blankets were warm and Roger was warm and there was almost no relation to the rest of the loft, which was frigid. The fire crackled enticingly as Mark shoved his numb hands between his sweater and the couch, where they met with yet more warmth.

Roger sneezed. Mark traced circles on his back with tingling fingers, feeling every rib through his friend's thick leather jacket. By midnight, both men were back asleep.

By one, Mark was awake again. What had awoken him was the violent trembling of his friend. Shivers wracked the man's thin body. His teeth chattered. Mark stirred and tucked the blankets more tightly around Roger and held him tight. Tears leaked out of the corner of the blonde man's eyes.

He hated seeing Roger this way. Emaciated and quivering- it was like seeing him in withdrawal all over again. It was enough hell when Roger had been giving up drugs. Now, in some ways, it was worse.

Eventually, Roger's shaking reduced to a more normal quake, and Mark was able to drop back to sleep again.

_December 25, 1991_

_9:43 A.M EST_

"Speak."

"Hey, where are you guys? I've been waiting for an hour." Collins's voice streamed through the machine as sunlight poured in the window.

Mark threw back the blankets and raced for the phone. "Collins? Shit, I'm sorry. I forgot to call you."

Roger stirred feebly on the couch, tugging the covers more tightly over himself.

"It's all right, man. What's going on?"

"We won't be able to make it for brunch today… Roger's been sick. I was up with him all night." Mark realized as he said them how ominous those words sounded- how chilling they must be for Collins.

"Is he…?"

"…No." He replied. "It's nothing serious. Just a cold. But I don't think he should be out… and you shouldn't be around him, either. Your immune system's shot these days too."

"Man, that's rough. Sick on Christmas." Collins answered. "He been to a doctor?"

"Nope. I don't think we have the money right now to pay for one. But he's better now, I think. Recuperating." He spoke softly; Roger's eyes were open and those ears with perfect pitch could hear mice scuttling through the floorboards- on the first floor.

"Take good care of my boy, Marky. Tell him to get better quick."

"Will do."

"I'll be in town until the thirtieth. I hope I'll get to see you guys before I head out."

"Where are you staying?"

"With friends." Collins answered shiftily.

"You're welcome to come here; we keep an extra key on hand for whenever you're in town." Mark offered.

"Naw, don't want to disturb Roger. He probably needs quiet." Collins replied. "I'll be in touch."

"Okay, bye."

Mark hung up the phone.

"That Collins?" Roger asked from behind him.

"Yep." Mark answered.

Roger smirked. "Where's that bastard staying?"

"With friends, he said." Mark replied hesitantly.

"You should've told him he doesn't have any friends but us." Roger said, grinning. Then his face fell as he realized what Mark must have done. "Did you cancel?"

"Yep."

"You didn't have to do that." Roger pouted.

Mark frowned. "Yes I did," he answered. "You're sick."

"You could've gone." Roger countered. "I'm not a baby. I don't need you to watch me every single minute."

Mark didn't know how to tell Roger that he liked doing it, that he couldn't stand knowing that Roger was in the loft, sick, and he was leaving him alone. He liked taking care of Roger, but he knew that if he said that, Roger would be annoyed. So he said nothing.

Nothing except a muttered "Take your pills." Before he retreated into the kitchen and out of sight.

Roger sighed and rolled his eyes. Mark was so sensitive. That was something that made him such a good friend to Roger, how even when he didn't understand, he tried to help. Even when Roger was rotten to him, Mark was nothing but good. It also, on occasion, made him very difficult to live with. He swallowed his AZT.

Standing on unsteady feet, Roger pushed himself into the kitchen, where he found Mark smearing blackberry jelly on burnt toast.

"I thought you might be hungry." Mark said, eyes cast down at the charred bread. "It burned. Our toaster's crap."

"It was a nice thought." Roger ventured.

"I know you don't like grape," Mark continued, "so I got out the blackberry."

"Thank you."

Both men stood in silence for a minute, discreetly regarding the other. Mark hacked viciously at the jelly jar and Roger leaned heavily on the doorframe.

"You really shouldn't be up, you know." Mark finally stated.

"Yeah, I know." Roger coughed. "You just looked like you were going to cry. I didn't want you to be upset."

Mark sighed resignedly. "I'm not upset."

"You are. I can tell." Roger coughed again.

"I'm not upset. Now breathe. If you hack up a lung, we'll really regret not having insurance."

Roger cleared his throat. "Ha. Funny."

"I know." Mark replied, noting the rough sound of Roger's voice. "Now get back under those blankets. I'm going to make some tea."

Roger complied. When Mark returned, he was sitting on the couch, fingers plucking at the strings of the Fender, hammering out chords. The sound was both comforting and annoying to Mark. He knew that Roger had to be feeling at least a bit better to pick up the guitar, but to Mark, whose ears were so used to the timbre of the Fender, found the thought of listening to another song actively being composed was heartrending.

"Okay, Jimi Hendrix." Mark joked, setting the cup down on the table. "Play later. Eat now."

For the record, Roger didn't complain once about the blackened toast as he ate it dutifully.

_8:27 P.M. EST_

"So… you had to burn the music?"

"Yeah. Sorry about that." Mark replied guiltily. "I'll buy you some more when my next paycheck comes in."

"You don't have to." Roger returned. "You pay for my food and my pills most of the time anyway… I really owe you more than one sheet of music."

"It wasn't just one sheet." Mark admitted sheepishly. "It was more like an entire folder."

Roger cringed a little, but he tried to keep it from his voice. "It's not your fault." He managed to say. "It's _their_ fault for turning off the heat." He glowered at the intangible managerial presence. "You don't have to put your money to it."

"Yeah… I mean, I want to." Mark blushed. "I have the money; they pay me enough at Buzzline. We can afford replacement music."

"No, it's really okay." Roger protested. "A lot of your paycheck already goes to me. You should spend the rest of it on you. You work hard for it."

"I took the job at Buzzline so I could afford things like regular grocery shopping and replacements for things I break." Mark answered.

"I know you hate working there. The money should at least benefit you somehow. Buy yourself a new jacket or scarf." Roger reached over and affectionately tugged on the ratty end of the beloved striped scarf.

"I don't need a new scarf. I like my scarf." Mark refuted. "And I don't hate working at Buzzline. It gives me a chance to get my message out to a wider audience…" He trailed off. The statement was almost devoid of all feeling. It sounded as dull and meaningless to Roger as it did in Mark's head when he repeated it to himself each night.

"Once more, with feeling." Roger smirked. "You don't have to lie to me. I know you're miserable. You feel like you sold out. Make it worth it, Marky."

"Alexi Darling wooed me away from my principles with a few siren words of wealth." Mark blurted, head in his hands. "Oh God, what have I done?"

Roger laughed and patted his friend awkwardly on the shoulder. "Relax. They're paying you what your soul is worth; it's okay that you sold it. You didn't sell out to the Man, Mark. You haven't lost your message. You still have that. No one can take your ideals away from you." He coughed once into his palm and continued. "This is on the side. You'll never be Benny, Mark, no matter how hard they try to make you turn into him."

Both men were silent for a little. Then, just when they were about to lapse into comfortable silence:

"Thanks, Roger."

"No problem."

_December 28, 1991_

_4:48 P.M.EST_

Mark shrugged into his coat and wound the striped scarf around his neck.

Roger looked up from his newspaper, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug. "Where are you going?" He asked, sniffling.

"I'm picking up AZT for you. You're out."

"I'm not out. Surely I'm not out…" Roger counted the days in his head and decided that it was entirely possible that he was out. "You don't have to do that."

"Oh, yeah, and you're going to go pick it up?" Mark asked skeptically. "You can barely walk to the bathroom on your own. I think I have to do it."

Roger flushed. Mark was sorry for being mean to him, but he'd made his point.

"Be careful." Roger acquiesced. "People kill for those pills, you know."

"They do not."

"They do so." Roger rolled up his sleeve, showed off a pale scar on his upper arm. "I was robbed coming home with them last year."

Mark gaped. "You never told me that!" He reached out to trace the scar.

"It wasn't important." Roger shrugged away from Mark's prying hands, rolling down his sleeve. "The cut wasn't deep and I got away with my AZT and my life. Others aren't so lucky."

"When...?"

"July. The twentieth." Roger answered. "Mimi bandaged it for me." He sneezed, coughed, took a sip of his scalding tea.

"Rest up, Rog." Mark said, watching as Roger rubbed his head. "I'll be back in an hour or so."

He left, pulling the door shut behind him as he advanced down the drafty stairway.

_5:21 P.M. EST_

_Street_

Mark shoved the paper bag into the basket on his bike handles and adjusted his camera gingerly.

He'd got some great footage of the line up to the counter for AZT. The shots would be perfect for his documentary on HIV patients- he already had a feeling that the scene would be so raw and emotional, full of the bitterness that came with a numbering of days. (This was something he knew intimately, living with Roger. Had Roger not incessantly objected so violently to be captured on film- something Mark had always found odd in a musician who loved the limelight like Roger- he would've been the perfect subject.)

Mark's eyes darted back and forth, scrutinizing the street and pedestrians. Was it just him, or were they all looking at him? He shuddered as he snapped the camera into its holder. Maybe Roger's story about the street value of AZT had gotten to him a little.

That tall man with the hat was looking a little too closely at the bag. Roger's pills tucked a little more closely to Mark's chest. He shot an annoyed and concerned look the way of the hatted man.

Okay, he was just being paranoid now. He'd have to have a talk with Roger about undue worrying, and how he did it anyway and didn't need any help.

"Hey, kid!"

He mounted his bike and began pedaling off down the sidewalk toward the alley entrance.

The sound of a motorcycle roared in his ears. He didn't look back, pretended not to notice the biker who was following him.

"Hey, kid!"

The bike was almost level with him now. He was irrationally nervous about the intentions of the biker as he tried to outpedal the revving motor four feet behind. He closed his eyes and propelled himself even faster.

"HEY!"

An arm grabbed him by the scarf, sending his bike skidding to a curving halt. He landed on his side, bike still between his legs, with a sharp smack in the gray-tinted snow. He winced less with physical pain than mental as the basket on his handlebars emitted a crunch that sounded suspiciously like camera parts meeting bad ends.

Mark had grabbed the basket on instinct as he fell, clutching his camera and the bag containing Roger's pills protectively. He huddled around them like they were bringing him warmth, which they were not. He closed his eyes and feigned unconsciousness.

There was a sound like a waterfall of chains as the stranger dismounted. Hands reached down to Mark's jacket pocket, and his assailant removed his two dollars and twenty-three cents. _Good, you can take it._ Mark thought, fighting not to edge away. _Just not Roger's pills and please, God, not the camera._

Spidery finger inched their way into Mark's folded arms, tugged the baggie free.

"You got drugs, kid?" The gruff voice asked, as a sharp kick jiggled the bottom of Mark's shoe. There came the sounds of crumpling paper, then a pause during which Mark assumed the mugger was peering inside. Then the sound of capsules clicking against a pill bottle.

A chuckle. "AZT, huh? You got AIDS? You one of them fags, kid?" Mark tried not to flinch at that. Roger hated that, how people always just assumed that because he had AIDS he was gay. Not that there was anything wrong with that, he always added, glancing to Collins, it was just that he wasn't, and, well…

"This should fetch a pretty penny on the street." The biker commented, shaking the bottle. "All you queers running around like you own the fucking city, all the time dying of that nasty queer disease the faggots get when it's time for them to die." He laughed raucously, but never got to finish.

Mark's foot lashed out and kicked the guy- around where his kneecap ought to be, as far as Mark could guess. The mugger froze, silent, and Mark heard rapid footsteps and a motorcycle driving away. A paper bag fell next to his feet.

Mark sat up, dusted half-melted snow off his body, and shivered.

He couldn't see. He hoped that this was temporary, as he had no wish to remain blind indefinitely. Then he realized that his glasses were no longer on his face. They were where his right arm had been in the snow. Lifting them, he saw that the left lens was nothing but shards of glass. One of them had come loose and nicked his cheek- luckily, not deeply. He wiped a trickle of blood off his jaw and pushed the glasses back over his eyes. He could still see blurrily if he squinted the left eye almost shut so the right eye did all the seeing.

He examined his belongings. The bike frame was slightly lopsided now, but it would still run and that was a plus. The bandit had dropped Roger's pills in his haste to get away, so Mark had those as well. His camera- oh his camera- Mark's soul ached for the losses suffered by his poor camera. It still appeared to be mostly intact, operable at least, although the crank was cracked down one side.

Mark pulled the bike upright and began walking toward home.

_6:11P.M.EST _

_Loft_

Roger was jolted awake by the sound of the door slamming after Mark.

"Hey." Roger greeted warmly, stirring groggily. "You're late. Where'd you go?"

Mark didn't answer. There was something disconcerting about the way he stood there, looking pale and shell-shocked. He clutched a crumpled brown paper bag tightly, holding it convulsively in his fists. His knuckles were white with the force.

"Mark?" Roger asked, seeing Mark's blanched face with smeared blood on one cheek and the cracked left lens of his glasses. "Mark, are you okay?"

Mark still didn't answer. He drew a shuddering breath and exhaled, slowly.

Roger stood up and crossed the room. "Marky? What's wrong?" He put out a hand and touched Mark's shoulder. "You're shivering." His eyes widened with shock and dismay, stomach plummeting with fear, before he spoke again. "Did you get my pills?"

"Y-yes." Mark said, holding out the paper bag and releasing it gingerly into Roger's outstretched hand. "Yes, I got them." He panted, closed his eyes, remembered to breathe.

"What happened? You're wet." Roger observed, taking a step back from Mark where he stood in his soaking jacket and tattered scarf. "Did you fall? Are you all right?"

Marl shook his head. "I'm… fine." He responded. "Just cold." With shaking arms, he began to struggle out of his jacket- before Roger took it from behind.

Roger surveyed the sopping mess with distaste. "I'll, um… take this to the kitchen to dry?" He suggested, cocking his head to the side.

The blonde sighed, relaxing unsteadily against one wall once his roommate was gone. He clawed at the striped scarf, feeling a soreness in his throat there that he knew meant a nasty bruise was forming. (He always had bruised easily- he'd been black and blue for weeks after he fell while dancing with Nanette Himmelfarb.)

"What is that?" A well-known voice asked in horror. Roger's face was filled with panic and disgust.

Mark straightened sharply. "Um, nothing." He answered, tugging the scarf back up to the tender skin in an attempt to conceal what he already knew was a vivid mark. "It's nothing."

"That's not nothing, Mark." Roger said slowly. "That's definitely something. Let me see."

Mark, seeing he had no choice, reluctantly untwisted the scarf. A dark bruise was spreading across the pale skin of his neck.

Roger hissed a sympathetic breath.

"I was mugged."

Roger squeezed his eyes shut, as though it were his neck that was darkening in a painful welt. "I shouldn't have let you go. It's too dangerous."

"I'm okay…" Mark said, removing his glasses. (The rent lens was messing with his vision and making him a little dizzy.) "Spent a little time in the gutter, but I'm all right. I got away with your pills and nothing worse than a few bruises and broken glasses."

"Who was it? What did he look like, Mark?" Roger pressed. "Did he hurt you?"

"I didn't see him, Rog. He was wearing… a jacket with green corduroy sleeves." Mark strained to remember over his pounding headache. "He grabbed me from behind. That was all I saw." He cradled his head tiredly, swallowed hard. He flinched. It would hurt to talk tomorrow. "I got away from him. I got away with your AZT. You couldn't afford to go without."

"Marky." Roger said, smoothing the other man's hair. "You could've been hurt. That man's lucky I don't know who he is. I'd kill him." He laughed a little, running his fingers over the half-scabbed cut on Mark's cheek much the same way Mark had fingered his scar earlier in the afternoon.

Mark flinched involuntarily when Roger's scrutiny of the nick produced a painful twinge. "Don't." He croaked, throat aching. "Don't say that."

Roger inched nearer, whispering in the other man's ear. "I'm sorry, Mark. I don't mean for it to bother you. I only mean that I hate it when you're hurt."

"I'm okay. You don't have to worry about me." Mark felt a pang of guilt. He was supposed to be worrying about Roger. Roger was sick.

Roger stepped even closer, so they were breathing the same air. As if reading his mind, the response came. "You don't have to worry about me, either." He put a hand on Mark's face, cupping the cool cheek in a warm palm.

"What are you doing?" Mark whispered.

"What I should've done ages ago." Roger answered, thumb at the corner of Mark's mouth.

Mark's lips parted to ask a question, but he never got the chance.

_December 30, 1991_

_8:47 A.M. EST_

_Loft_

Roger and Mark. They sat, curled up together on the couch sharing a pile of blankets, a plate of what appeared to be cheap tea cookies, and a newspaper. Each had his own cup of tea.

Roger's fingers curled around the neck of his Fender, which sat on his lap, though he did not play. Mark's camera- shattered endfocus and all- sat next to him on the couch, cradled in the curve of his knees. Neither man spoke- this was difficult for both men, Roger due to a prolonged bout of the laryngitis that usually followed his illnesses, Mark due to the swelling and intense pain that resulted from his strangulation episode.

Roger coughed. Mark followed suit. Both groaned afterward. Mark twiddled with the broken crank on his camera. Roger lightly picked at a string on his guitar until it made a quiet, tinny sound. Then he clamped his finger over it to stop the vibration.

Roger chased AZT down with some cough syrup Mark had picked up a few days ago. Mark choked down a few aspirin.

Mark turned the page on the newspaper, sipped more tea. Roger resumed nibbling his thumb.

Companionable silence.

_December 31, 1991_

_10:56 P.M. EST_

"Speak."

"Hey, boys, it's me." Cried a familiar voice. "I'm downstairs. Throw down that key!"

"Collins!" Roger screeched, running for the balcony. "You bastard! Where've you been?"

"Throw down the key; I'm freezing my ass off down here!"

Roger complied eagerly.

A few seconds later, Collins entered with a bottle of champagne and a bag of groceries. "I came to see out the old year, boys." He announced, setting down his bags.

"Hey!" Roger ambushed Collins with a fierce embrace. "I thought you were leaving town yesterday."

"I was." A shrug. "I didn't." He smiled. "I didn't get to see my boys. I couldn't leave without catching up with you guys."

Roger grinned. "You fucker." He clapped Collins on the shoulder. "Hey Mark! Guess who's here!"

A bruised and bespectacled face peered around a corner, frowning. "I could hear the machine, too, you know." Mark rasped.

Collins stiffened next to Roger, obviously noticing the broken glasses and scrapes. "Mark, man, what happened to you?"

Mark's frown deepened. He knew that the bruises must be a very spectacular shade of purple today. He raised the hand that had been grazed by the gutter in a wave. "Hi, Collins." He whisper-yelled. His voice was harsh and quiet… he wasn't sure if the strangling itself had done it or if it was just the pain that followed screwing with his voice. On the other hand, he'd been a little sniffly since last night… maybe Roger'd given him his cold on top of everything else.

Roger bumped the worried-looking Collins. "He was mugged."

Mark scowled. "Bringing you pills."

"Not my fault." Roger protested guiltily. "I warned you. It's not my fault." He turned to the black man. "He looks worse than he feels, trust me. He's all bruised up and doesn't have much of a voice, but he's fine."

Collins looked from one man to the other. "You sound a little hoarse, too, Rog. You losing your voice?"

"Nope." Roger sniffled. "Just getting it back, actually."

"Feeling better?"

"Much."

"Great." Mark replied gruffly. "On the other hand, I think you gave it to me." He coughed and then grimaced in an exaggerated expression of pain.

Roger pouted in mockery. "Poor baby." But something registered in his eyes, a fear or worry or guilt that was only visible later when he wrapped a blanket around Mark's shoulders.

Collins caught them looking at each other out of the corner of his eye as he worked on the fire. Shaking his head, he poured them all Stoli.

"To tide us over until the champagne." He told the others- as though they needed an excuse to drink.

"All right!" Roger cheered, taking his paper cup and knocking it against Collins's in an exuberant toast.

Mark snorted into his cup as the other two men tried in vain to wipe spilled vodka from their soaked shirts.

Roger glared at him. "Yeah, laugh it up. At least I didn't get strangled by my own scarf, _Isadora Duncan_."

Mark just smirked, knowing Roger would get what he deserved later.

_December 31,1991_

_11:59:59 P.M. EST_

"Ten… Nine… Eight…" The words seeped over the city, not-quite quiet anticipation stringing the crisp night taut.

"Roger?" Mark asks, looking up at the other man where they sit, dangerously close, on the couch, sharing blankets and body heat.

"Mmm-hmm?"

"Be my date for the New Year?" Mark asked, a light smile brushing his damaged face.

Roger smiled back. "Of course."

"Three… Two… One… HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

Collins turned over the champagne to pop the cork just in time to behold the kiss out of the corner of his eye. "Happy New Year." He whispered, words floating away over a city of "Auld Lang Syne" and confetti.

Life went on. The world kept turning as old lovers and new shared the first kiss of New Year.

**Author's Note cont'd**: Feel free to criticize the mugging bit. It's unrealistic and sucky and I know that. I couldn't get by without including it. Sorry for putting you through that.


End file.
